


The Mischaracterization of Murasakibara Atsushi

by zemmeline



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5555744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zemmeline/pseuds/zemmeline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tatsuya thinks they're friends, but evidence of this is a little tough to come by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of interest

_October 10, 6:57 PM_

The crumpling of cellophane sounds throughout the third floor communal studying area for the fourth time in half an hour. With this disturbance comes a wave of annoyed groans and tired sighs, all while the source of the noise calmly tears open another bag of chips.

On the other corner of the room, a large, purple haired man sits at a secluded table hunched over a textbook. Although his posture speaks of drawing attention away from himself, his size and all the noise he’s making presents the opposite. Somewhere in between them, Himuro notices a green haired man slam his books into a bag and swiftly make his way to the elevators.

Himuro Tatsuya often came to the third floor for some quiet in between classes, but with midterms looming in front of them, many students have chosen to put their tuition money to good use and camp out in the library. For the last week, he’s had to shuffle his way through the extra bodies in his preferred room, and his patience was beginning to wear thin. To his right, a girl angrily stuffs a pair of ear phones into her ears.

The arrival of the purple haired man less than an hour ago, however, has made him curious. Without saying a word, he’s managed to clear out the room enough to reflect the number of people Himuro is much more accustomed to seeing outside of exam seasons. He even had the gall to blink blankly and continue chewing at a student who asked him to stop eating in the library, all while looking him dead in the eye. Realizing he’d been openly staring at the strange man for a while, Himuro turns back to his lecture notes and reads.

The next time he bothers to look up, it’s almost 10 o’clock and there’s only three people still sitting in desks, one of them with a pile of snack wrappers sitting by his elbow on the table, his face resting on his hand, eyes boring into Tatsuya. Without thinking, Himuro smiles at the man, who continues to look at him with hooded eyes and a bored expression, and then packs his things, setting off for the elevators.

_October 14th, 9:01 PM_

Tatsuya is roused from his textbook by the aggressive sound of a chair scraping the linoleum flooring. A few heads look up to follow the figure stalking away and then turn to sneak a glance at the same purple haired man in the same place he’s occupied since Himuro first saw him. When he spotted him again earlier, he idly threw him a smile, which was acknowledged, but not returned. Since the first day, Tatsuya has come in to see the man already in the same seat. If it weren’t for the different clothing and his appearance being especially polished for someone probably in the midst of stressful testing and papers, he would have thought the man never bothered going home.

Still, he thinks to himself, he must at least leave this place based on how much food he’s watched him consume.

Once again, he is slurping from a juice pack, a pile of snack detritus beside him. There have been notably less people around the third floor lately, the word getting around of a disruptive and silently uncooperative man dwelling the place, most likely. Not that he’s complaining at all. Before Himuro can return his attention to his reading, the man stands up, and he can’t help his mouth from dropping open a little at how comically small the study table looks beside him as he stretches and then carelessly swipes his garbage into the bag next to his chair.

As he hooks the strap of his bag over his shoulder, his eyes land on Himuro, who smiles awkwardly at being caught staring. This time, the man nods his head and then treads to the elevator, his strides lazy but wide. Himuro forces himself to look down when he passes him.

_October 16 th, 7:30 PM_

Watching the dimming sunset filter in through the library windows, Tatsuya begins to question whether he’s really making a good choice. The purple haired man, he learns, is named _Muk-kun_ , at least according to the pink haired lady who ran into him at the library yesterday. Aside from being at school during his precious weekend, he’s sitting at the purple haired man’s table with a bag of _Nerunerunerune_ candy in his pocket, trying to feel as dignified as one about to give a grown man candy can. The night before, finding himself unable to focus, Tatsuya figured his strange fixation because of his unpaid debt. The purge of people on the third floor and consequently, Himuro’s exam performance, is owed to him and his obscene eating habits.

One other thing that the pink-haired lady from yesterday mentioned, setting Himuro’s veins alight, is the mention of a _team_. Tatsuya likes to think he’s somewhat intelligent, being enrolled in a reputable university and what else, so the most obvious deduction he can make here is that the tank of a man plays basketball too in some form.

He clenches his fists once again to calm himself, not wanting to find a reason to be embarrassed for his actions in meeting him.

Around half past seven, Tatsuya doubts that _Muk-kun_ will be coming to school, _and for a good reason,_ he reminds himself. Trying not to feel disappointed, he moves to get out of the chair, but promptly sits down when he spots the tall man. Composing himself coolly, he smiles up at him when he steps closer, one purple eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“Hello, I’m Himuro Tatsuya,” He gives him a small bow and gestures at the chair. “Won’t you sit down?” He notices the tall man’s eyes scan his face before nodding and then placing his bag down.

“Murasakibara Atsushi.”


	2. small talk (with a wall)

In the midst of their conversation up to this point, Himuro has counted three bouts of awkward silence, one misunderstood question, and too many uninterested _‘hmm’s_.

“So. You like food a lot, I’m guessing.”

“Mm.”

To be fair, neither of them were giving the other much to work with. After giving their names and making the minimal amount of necessary small talk, Tatsuya finds he is still unable to get over the initial bewilderment at the man’s size. His presence itself is intimidating, which brings Tatsuya straight to the topic on the forefront of his mind. Which is basketball, obviously.

“Play me.” Tatsuya cringes inwardly. _Smooth. Real smooth._ As a type of peace-offering cum symbolic apology he retrieves the candy and places it on the table between them

Purple eyebrows hardly quirk as a pair of eyes squint down at him. _Not an obvious bribe at all_ , Tatsuya thinks to himself. To his surprise, however, Murasakibara says nothing and wordlessly accepts the gift with hardly a judgemental glance.

“You play ball?” A broad hand reaches into the obnoxiously blue packaging, making the candy tray look five times smaller than it actually is.

“Yeah. I haven’t done much after my high school basketball team, though.” Murasakibara-san takes this chance to begin eating his treat, a shadow of thoughtfulness appearing in his otherwise blank expression. Not knowing what else to do, Tatsuya smiles and waits for his answer in silence.

“I don’t play anymore.” Murasakibara is thoughtfully chewing on the tiny spatula, a bored expression has replaced whatever he saw earlier. “I don’t have time for it.”

“But you did play on a team too, right?” Tatsuya feels his eyebrows pull together, wondering what could occupy the man enough to leave no time for basketball.

“Yeah.” Abandoning the spatula, he scrapes the remainder of the candy off the tray with a finger. “But not anymore.”

“Would it be rude of me to ask why?”

“Same as you. I graduated and I don’t have time for it anymore.” Tatsuya thinks he catches an edge of annoyance in his voice, so he switches tracks.

“Hey. I wanted to say thanks, by the way.” Murasakibara cocks an eyebrow. “I see you around here a lot and the noise your snacks make empties out the place.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” There’s a ghost of a smile peeking through once again and Tatsuya can’t help but feel rewarded.

“Nah, but having all the people breathing in one stuffy room did.”

“Mm.”

By now the sun and the pinks and purples and navy of the sunset are gone, replaced by pitch and fluorescent lighting. Murasakibara has swept his garbage into his bag, pulling out a heavy looking textbook that hardly looks burdensome in his massive hands.

“You’re a Physics major?”

“Mm. You?”

“Marketing.” Tatsuya gestures to the blue hardcover at his side. Murasakibara cocks his head to the side and looks at him.

“What’s your name again?”

“Himuro.”

“Thanks for the candy.”

Tatsuya nods, feeling like he just scaled an entire mountain. When they are finally kicked out of the closing library, it’s almost midnight and Tatsuya has earned both Murasakibara’s offer of his own snack and his phone number.

_November 2 nd, 3:33 PM_

“Muro-chin.”

“Yes?” Tatsuya fixes to strain his ears, the din of the coffee shop around them making it difficult to hear this companion.

“If you wanted to study why did you bring us here?” Unwillingly, Tatsuya tears his eyes from the page.

Since their first meeting, the two of them have been studying in each other’s company. Even with the tide of midterm assignments over with, Murasakibara still sits in the same place with the same excessive snacking habits, only now with Himuro across from him.

“I’m not studying, just reading.” Tatsuya had invited him to check out a small, Western-style café that recently opened near campus. It was moderately crowded for 2 o’clock in the afternoon, but noise hardly deterred him before. “How’s the Tiramisu?”

Murasakibara shrugs before putting another spoonful into his mouth. “It’s alright, nothing to call home about though.” Tatsuya sticks the paper he tore from his notes earlier into the abandoned pages. “You can keep reading,” Atsushi says while he sips at his tea.

“Nah. I can’t get into it.” He sips at his previously untouched latte and hums, impressed. “What else have you ordered, Atsushi?”

Living in America for a good chunk of his life, Tatsuya wasn’t as prone to subscribing to the Japanese formalities of honorifics and family names as his parents and high school teachers would have liked. The second time he and Murasakibara sat at the same table, Tatsuya shared a bag of potato chips with him, resulting in an affectionate sounding nickname that would’ve weirded Tatsuya out a little if it weren’t for the knowledge that Murasakibara tacked the suffix to the end of most of his friends names.

Instead, he found the nickname endearing, if not a little childish. In return, he cautiously eased himself into using his given name to address him, not that Atsushi seemed to mind at all.

While Atsushi gave his in-depth critique of the dishes, courtesy of his surprisingly well-developed palate, Tatsuya thinks of whether he would consider themselves friends. They’ve known each other for a grand total of three weeks and they’re pretty much on a first name basis, but he’s not sure what else is required in order to classify them as friends. At the most they are acquaintances who see each other too often.

 _Oh- that’s a sad thought._ Tatsuya thinks.

Their separate commutes home has Tatsuya thinking even deeper about their friendship. He’s comfortable with Murasakibara, and Atsushi doesn’t _seem_ put-off by his presence, at least it’s very difficult to tell from the way he carries himself- lazy and impassive. They don’t talk about much aside from school and food and sometimes movies- _oh_ , that’s it.

In the back of his mind, Tatsuya recognizes that basketball is another broach-able topic, but something further back tells Tatsuya it’d be a bad idea.

Tatsuya realizes, while twisting his key into his apartment door that he knows next to nothing about Murasakibara Atsushi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/136223029306/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi).
> 
> Thanks for reading, friends! I've got the outline down, so it should be a pretty smooth ride from here (for me, at least. Can't really say the same for our dearest ballers oops).


	3. variety is the spice of life

_November 19 th, 6:53 PM_

“So you just- threw it at him?”

Himuro cringes at his roommate’s blunt wording. “Well, when you put it like-“

“Tatsuya,” Kagami reaches for the spatula, turning his attention back to the stove. “I don’t know if you know this but people don’t tend to appreciate having their company bought out.”

“It’s not like that.” He pouts at the tower of bulk and red hair, who is examining a bottle of meat seasoning. “He really likes them, and I happened to pick some up before running into him that one time-“

“Oh, so I guess you’ve always wanted to try those 6 boxes of Limited Edition Umaibou.” Tatsuya shifts around in his barstool uncomfortably.

“I got two free boxes of the barbecue cheese sticks with every purchase.” He pretends not to notice Kagami’s unimpressed expression.”

“Were those the cheese sticks you gave him the day after?”

“No, I went back for the dill flavour.”

“You have a problem.”

“No, no, Taiga you’re supposed to be on my side.” Kagami snorts, flipping the eighteen-egg omelet in the massive pan.

His roommate had just come home from an American training camp with the University’s basketball team. Kagami was a lot tanner than he’d been when he left two weeks ago, but his change in appearance had no effect on the bottomless pit resting smack in the center of his digestive system. Unfortunately, Tatsuya remarks, he was just as blunt and clueless in the realm of romantic uncertainty and advice-giving as he’s been their whole lives together, even after the last 2 hours of filling him in on what he’s dubbed ‘ _The Atsushi Files’_.

 “Besides,” continues Himuro “you of all people shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss a big appetite.” He eyes the abomination on the stove, even if it did smell pretty good.

“I wasn’t.” Kagami uses the spatula to lift the eggs, peeking at the underside of his omelet with one eye closed. He places his spatula down and turns to look at Himuro. “I’m just saying this guy might not even be into you for your personality.”

Tatsuya bristles, “Oh, I see-“

“Pfft, put it away, Tatsu-nii.” Kagami pats some rice into a bowl. “I don’t care if you’re into this guy for real or not. Whatever it is, I think you should find a better way to get to know him besides bribing him into tolerating you.” Tatsuya deflates, not even caring that Kagami has summed up his main concerns in so little words. He sighs.

“Alright, then what should I do?”

“You said he’s into basketball, why not go with that?” Tatsuya groans.

“Is all you ever think about basketball, geez.” He moves to stand next to Taiga, who’s resumed his perch by the stove. “I already tried that. I think it annoyed him.”

“Well try it again.”

“We can’t all be as insufferably persistent as you and still have people want us around, Taiga.” A chunk of rice is flicked at his face.

“It’s better than your Pavlov’s Dog approach.”

“What?” Kagami doesn’t look at him, too busy navigating the kitchen in the masterful way Tatsuya’s always envied.

“You’re showering him in junk food every time you see each other.” He begins plating his ridiculous omelette. “He likes junk food, it’s questionable whether he likes you. The love he must have for processed fats and sugar overrides whatever apathy he might hold for you and forces him to associate you with the reward of unhealthy carbs.” He’s sneering at the parsley now.

“Damn, Taiga. What did they feed you in America? You feeling okay?”

“Huh?” Kagami looks up from decorating his omurice, the side of Tatsuya’s face is laying on the counter next to him.

“That was really insightful, even if it was weird to hear academic words come out of your mouth. I’m a little proud.”

“Oi, what are you trying to say?” Himuro waves his hands nonchalantly, dismissing his roommate’s question.

“Don’t worry about it,” He sits up and follows Kagami to the dining table. “I guess you’re right though, I’m usually the one inviting him places.”

“So ask him to meet you at the courts.”

“That’s too forward!’ Kagami huffs a laugh around his mouthful of rice, choking a little when he notices Tatsuya’s legitimately scandalized expression.

“Please, Tatsu-nii, you can’t actually be worried about being too forward now.”

Tatsuya only sighs and pulls out his phone, trying to mentally assemble the invitation before he types it out to send to Murasakibara.

_November 21 st, 10:49 AM _

His heart is beating really fast for some reason, which is ridiculous seeing as this was definitely not the first time he’s spent the day with Atsushi.

Tatsuya sent Murasakibara the address to the University sports complex and made it as obvious as he could (without explicitly stating it) that he wanted to play some one-on-one. Tatsuya realized that if he were in Murasakibara’s shoes, he’d most likely be annoyed at the vague, awkward wording and ambiguous details, but spontaneity seemed to go over well with Murasakibara despite his laziness, so he hoped this wouldn’t turn out to be a total disaster.

In hindsight, Tatsuya was unsure what he was so worried about. The absolute worst ase scenario, he recognized, would be Murasakibara becoming so angry at the prospect of basketball that he never spoke to Himuro again, which was worrisome, but unlikely. Granted, Tatsuya’s only known Murasakibara long enough to have been witness to a limited portion of the man’s spectrum of expressed emotion. This only ranged between disinterest and annoyance.

“Muro-chin.”

Tatsuya turned around only to find a wall of striped shirt amd the crinkle of convenience store plastic bags.

“Are you ready?” Atsushi, in all his 200 cm glory, was casually munching on a variety of wasabi crackers he’d never seen before. The courts were still relatively empty, so they didn’t receive as many stares as Tatsuya was used to whenever he stepped out with his friend.

“Actually Atsushi, I was wondering if you’d like to play a round with me.” Instead of the irritation or the disinterest Tatsuya expected, Atsushi continued to chew thoughtfully. He placed one more handful of crackers in his mouth before checking his phone and then depositing it in his plastic bag, along with the half-empty snack bag.

“How many points to win?” Tatsuya stares at the man, a little uncertain if he’d heard correctly. He answers anyway.

“30?”

Atsushi took the earlier silence as a chance to place his things by the wall, dropping his coat on top of it all. Turning around, Atsushi holds his hands out and open, and Himuro automatically tosses the ball to him. He catches it like a natural.

“Eh? Are you sure you just want to go up to 30?”

 _Hilarious_ , Tatsuya thinks to himself, _he’s the one goading me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo yes, the total number of chapters is again undecided bc i underestimated the amount of stuff i'd be spewing onto this word processor lol oops. I split the chapter to keep the length consistent with the others, so you should expect the next one up p quick. Thanks again for reading friends! And a belated happy new years to you all!
> 
> Crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/136583311011/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://zemmeline.tumblr.com)


	4. ballers without borders

_November 21 st, 12:36 PM_

Sweat drips down Tatsuya’s collarbones in the way he’s missed.

He has no idea how long he and Atsushi have been playing, but based on the sizable crowd in the spectator’s area above them, they’ve probably been at it for a while. Attracting attention with basketball is nothing new to him, and he knows for a fact that Atsushi is no stranger to stares as well, so he’s not fazed when he glances up when the collective ‘ _ooohs’_ sound throughout the room.

 Atsushi yawns underneath the net, a large hand coming up to scratch at his stomach, not bothering with covering his mouth. “Are you happy now, Muro-chin?”

Tatsuya angles himself to face Murasakibara completely. “Not sure, I’m still debating whether or not you let that one through on purpose.” He smirks when the ball is tossed to him.

“Are you calling me lazy?” Atsushi bends, assuming the now familiar defensive stance.

“Hey, you said it, not me.” At that, Himuro fakes left and dribbles past him, only to be met with the same wall he’s been trying to break past for hours.

When Atsushi had first joined him on the court, Tatsuya automatically remarked the steadfast and aggressive way he poised himself, which was foreign to him up until the moment. Now, Tatsuya was sure that even when they finished the game and stepped off the court, he’d never be able to separate that aura from Murasakibara’s image. Even with the broad back, wide shoulders and giant frame he’s seen nearly every day, his distinctively laid-back approach to everything tended to undermine his otherwise intimidating appearance. At least such was the case for Himuro. Playing against Atsushi invited a lot of opportunities to watch him, if not devote all sensory attention to the way he existed on the court.

Himuro was not the only one sweating from the exertions. Atsushi had bunched all his hair into an elastic band that Tatsuya never noticed was on his wrist when the first beads of perspiration began to run down his forehead. It wouldn’t quite occur to Tatsuya until later that the newfound openness to Atsushi’s face combined with the fierce look in his eye could be the cause of his initial distracted playing.

Presently, Tatsuya was still going strong in his offense, although there was no slack in Atsushi’s form. It was wordlessly agreed early on that having Himuro try to block Murasakibara’s jump shots was too ambitious, even for a player of his caliber. If anything, Tatsuya’s had a number of idle thoughts concerning their plausible success as a team. It was obvious their ultimate strengths lay in offense for Tatsuya and defence for Murasakibara, making it hard to have a fair game when one player’s height made up for their reluctance to move beyond blocking.

With a swift turn and a strategic bounce of the ball, Tatsuya makes his ninth three-pointer of the game. The familiar buzz of the crowd’s excitement ran along his veins. The praises of his form were common fare for him. He steals a glance at Atsushi, who caught the rebound, but instead of tossing it to him to continue their sparring, he executes the most effortless vertical jump Tatsuya had ever seen- dunking it like the ten feet separating the hoop from the ground was no big deal.  

There’s another chorus of _oohs_ and even some astounded expletives among the audience, a trill of what may be pride shakes Tatsuya. He smiles when Atsushi lands, thudding enough for him to feel it.

“You hungry? I guess I’m buying.” Tatsuya pointedly doesn’t say he had lost. He’s rewarded with a lazy smile as Murasakibara sweeps towards him.

“Mm. Lead the way Muro-chin.”

_November 21 st, 1:31 PM_

Atsushi’s more talkative on the way to Maji Burger. He doesn’t seem to be any more excited than his usual phlegmatic self, unlike Tatsuya who can still feel the effects of the lingering adrenaline from their game.

“Y’know Atsushi, I’m a little surprised that I didn’t have to bribe you with food beforehand.” Tatsuya says around a mouthful of fries. Atsushi, who is slurping from his drink raises an eyebrow and then snorts before sampling Tatsuya’s fries.

“I’m not a dog, Muro-chin.” He chews thoughfully. “Or a child. I just don’t see the point in wasting energy on something I don’t want to do.” He takes a bite out of his second burger, the sound of the wrapping masking his words so that Tatsuya only catches the end of his sentence. “-mood today.”

“I know you’re not a dog, Atsushi,” he thinks back sheepishly to his conversation with Kagami the night before. “How’s the barbecue sauce?”

Before he can answer, a man’s voice sounds from behind Himuro. “Murasakibara?” He and Atsushi turn their attention to the voice at the same time, but with decidedly different reactions.

“Ah, Mine-chin.”

“Taiga?”

“Oh, I thought it was you, Tatsu-nii.”

“Tatsu-nii?”

“Tatsu-nii?”

The second and third repetitions of his name were enunciated in tones that could only be described as snickering and incredulous, respectively. Looking at the blue haired stranger (Mine-chin, according to Atsushi), it wasn’t difficult to see why he would be poking fun at Taiga’s nickname for him. He held himself with the swagger and self-assurance of a delinquent, but had a familiar confidence of an athlete. He swept his gaze over him once more. A very good athlete.

Whoever this Mine-chin was, Tatsuya chose to address Atsushi’s one-worded question first.

“Ha, I was just thinking of you Taiga. Speak of the devil.” He gestures at them to have a seat, which they take. “Atsushi, this is my roommate and little brother. Taiga, this is Murasakibara Atsushi.” They complete the rest of their introductions without issue, that is until Tatsuya learns that Aomine-san and Atsushi had been team mates in middle school.

“Generation of Miracles?”

“Mm.” Aomine, while a little insufferable as far as he’d seen, still seemed pretty cool. He was apparently on the same University basketball team as Kagami, which was a feat in itself, being another freshman starter. “You a returnee?”

“Yeah.” He answers truthfully, half anticipating some xenophobic bullshit. ”Why’s that important?” Himuro watches Aomine takes another bite out of his sandwich.

“If you’re as into basketball as I think you are, you’d have heard about us.” He swallows and then continues. “We might be tough shit in Japan but we were kids, not NBA players.” Aomine takes another bite, this time Himuro chooses to let him finish chewing before forcing him to speak again. He turns to Murasakibara.

“I’m not surprised you had a fancy name, Atsushi. That defense of yours is no joke.” His friend, who spent most of the table conversation eating in silence, only _mm’s_ in response, a definite indicator that he’s become bored with the subject.

Beside them, Taiga and Aomine, who were bickering over table manners and the fair rationing of their supply of ketchup, stop to look at them.

“You played him?” This time it’s Aomine who’s incredulous. Maybe even a little impressed, though Tatsuya didn’t want to flatter himself.

“Yeah, we just came from the courts.” Aomine lets out a short laugh and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Satsuki was just telling me that you got pissy when she invited you to our tournament last month.” The smug look on Aomine’s face is sly, yet irritating enough to irk Atsushi, it seems. “So you going back for it soon or what?”

Tatsuya and Taiga both look at Aomine, confused. “Going back for what?”

“Nothing.” Atsushi stands up, their joint mountain of wrappers piled onto his tray. “Let’s go Muro-chin.”

“The offer still stands, Atsushi!” Aomine yells this at Murasakibara’s departing figure. Casually, he puts the straw of his drink in between his teeth, sinking into the booth, arm slung on the headrest behind Kagami. “Oh, and Tatsuya. You might’ve gotten Atsushi playing for a while, but basketball’s probably not where you’re going to find him.”

Himuro blinks. Once at Aomine’s cat-like mug and then again at Taiga, who’s not meeting his gaze.

“Right. It was nice meeting you Aomine-san.”

The blue-haired man waves at him lazily, but Tatsuya’s already turned around, making his way to Atsushi outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/136729537936/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi).
> 
> I tend to struggle most with plots, so I'm crossing my fingers that this one stays on the road I want it to. Also that I don't fall off the deep end when it comes to my update schedule whoops. Thanks for reading friends! Once again, you can find me on the Tumblr under the same name :)


	5. mother knows best

_November 21 st, 5:41 PM_

“Pssh, I can tell you’re not even that angry at Taiga.”

“That’s not the point Alex, he had no business telling other people my shit!” The lady next to him gets up from the bench and briskly makes her way to a better-lit, crowded area. Himuro curls up sheepishly and lowers his voice. “I mean, how else would Aomine know I was trying to get closer to Atsushi?”

“He might’ve just picked up that you want into dear Atsushi-kun’s pants.”

“Alex! I do not want into anyone’s pants.” At this point, Tatsuya has cleared the entire corner of the park with his anguished English pleading. Alex can be such a hoot. “And _gross_ , why are you talking about _that_.”

“Ha, alright Tatsuya whatever you say. You’re an adult you know.”

“Ugh, you’re bringing me off topic. Can I continue?” Alex fakes a yawn, which crackles with the static of their long distance call.

“Oh, you have more?”

“ _Alex_.”

“Okay, okay. Yeesh, I’m just saying you might just be overreacting.”

“He told me that I won’t find Atsushi in basketball.” Something between a scoff and a gasp filters through the line.

“Imagine that. Someone who operates on something other than basketball. Y’know I often think that I’ve failed you and Taiga because of this one track mindedness the both of you have when it comes to ball.”

“Wait, that’s not the point.”

“No, hold on I’m starting my maternal advice. Don’t speak until I’m done.” Tatsuya just sighs, massaging the bridge of his nose. Alex takes a deep breathe over the phone. “I think it’s time for you to know that there’s more to life than friendly, sweaty, sport competition.”

“Alex stop patronizing-”

“Ah! I’m speaking Himuro, never interrupt a lady. I’m going somewhere with this, promise.” She clears her throat. “If you want to catch his interests, you gotta do it with something he’s familiar with. You identify with basketball and charming hordes of women at a time without meaning to. Even if you don’t appreciate it, it’s a feeling you know well.”

Tatsuya listens intently, or tries to. Alex tends to make less sense as she goes on when it comes to love advice.

“-think outside your tastes.”

“Wait, what?”

It’s Alex’s turn to sigh. “Alright, if you weren’t listening just know that I’m not repeating all of that.”

 “I’m not sure what else Atsushi likes outside of ball and snacks.”

There’s silence on Alex’s end of the line, and then, “how did you even become friends with this kid in the first place, be honest.” Knowing full well that Alex knows their story, he takes the question as rhetorical and ignores her, but she goes on anyway. “Maybe you can take this chance to really get to know him.”

“Sooo..?”

“Take him on a date. I mean, it can’t hurt, right?”

“Actually, Alex I can think of a few issues there.”

“I’m gonna guess you’re talking about Japanese conservatism and not the insane size difference.”

“Alex.”

“Pssh, stop pretending you don’t want to date this boy Tatsuya, I’ve always been able to see through you.” She sighs. “Okay, whatever it is, you want to get to know him better right?”

“Yes.”

“Mm, then make him comfortable. Have you invited him over yet?”

“Uh,” With a jolt, Tatsuya realizes that it hadn’t even occurred to him. “No.”

“Well you can start there.” He hears the triumph in her tone. “Maybe cook him some dinner, or is that too forward?” Oh she’s mocking him.

“Hmph. Thanks Alex. And I’ll think about it.” She just laughs.

“Let me know how it goes later, lover boy!”

Tatsuya ends the call after they say their goodbyes, and rests against the bench’s backrest. He and Atsushi had walked to the nearest train station in heavy-ish silence for most of the trip. Tatsuya had been unsure what topic would be safe to bring up while his friend was wearing such a dark expression. Surprisingly, Atsushi was the one to break the silence.

“Thank you, Muro-chin. I’ll see you on Monday.”

It wasn’t the most romantic, or even any degree of sentimental, but the warmth in his chest sat there long after Atsushi’s broad back disappeared through the station doors. He eventually wandered into the park he was sitting in at the very moment and waited until the time difference permitted him to phone up Alex in LA.

He had said nothing to her about that new weight on his chest, yet in the very Alex way she always demonstrated, she picked up on it quickly only to tease him mercilessly. Of course, for all he knows, Taiga had been gossiping to her about his personal life as well. He thinks this without much rancor, though. Alex is right, infuriatingly so, he really isn’t that angry at him. He likely hadn’t even known Aomine and Atsushi knew each other, it also wasn’t his style to blab, so at worst, it might’ve just slipped.

Of course, he doesn’t bother acknowledging Alex’s other claim, that Aomine could smell his burgeoning attraction to his old classmate, especially when he hasn’t fully understood it himself.

The four hours he’s spent wandering around the greater Tokyo green areas haven’t done much to clear his head. His wandering mind brings him back to Murasakibara’s words from earlier and then the thought of him in his apartment, his figure hunched over Tatsuya beside the stove. Himuro’s bringing a spoon up, up, up to his lips so he can sample his cooking. He smiles down at him in appreciation.

Tatsuya puts his flushed face in his hands, embarrassed.

_I can’t believe Alex brought up the size difference._

_November 29 th, 3:19 PM _

Tatsuya’s less in denial about his feelings at this point. Taiga’s knowledge of this is confirmed in the way he smirks at Himuro, who is currently running around their living room, dusting the spines of their video game cases. For the second time today, which he neglects to mention.

“What time’s Murasakibara-kun coming over?” Tatsuya jumps.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were here, Taiga-kun.” He checks his watch and blanches. “I told him I’d pick him up from the station at 3:30.” After chucking everything into the supply cupboard under the sink, Tatsuya scans the room another time to make sure there wasn’t anything incriminating or, God, embarrassing in sight. Seeing everything in relative order, he takes a deep breath and turns towards the door.

Only to be blocked by Taiga, who has the proud expression of someone who knew they were right.

They made up a week ago, if whatever had gone down could’ve been considered a fight. For two boys with relatively short fuses, and similar temperaments when it came to winning and being right, they weren’t very prone to disagreements. It turns out Taiga did tell Aomine, but he never did disclose the names of the parties involved, Aomine figured that out himself. Tatsuya shivered when he learned this, the man was sharper than he looked, and that was saying something.

“I’ll be at Daiki’s until this evening, anything I should pick up for you kids?” Himuro rolls his eyes and snakes around him to put his shoes on.

“No, you and _Daiki_ have fun.”

“Ha!” Taiga either ignores or overlooks Tatsuya’s jab. “Just call me if you two need some adult supervision.” He wanders back to the kitchen “ _Ahh_ , youth.”

Instead of chucking a heavy object at his roommate’s head, Tatsuya sets off, mature and poised, and tries not to think too hard about being alone with Murasakibara Atsushi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/136931492046/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi)
> 
> where is the himumura interaction????? where'd i put it?? i thought this was a muramuro fic??? why am i lying to you guys????
> 
> alright, I've figured this baby out, so you can expect nothing less than every cheesy trope know to man stuffed into the remaining 4 chapters. Why'd i leave it for the end? lol 
> 
> watch me procrastinate some more on the [tumblr](http://zemmeline.tumblr.com)  
> Thanks as always for reading!


	6. 180 degrees

_November 29 th, 5:37 PM_

There was a _teensy_ _tiny_ detail that Himuro had overlooked in planning for his date-not-date. He could blame Alex and Taiga all he wanted for getting him excited at the prospect of spoon-feeding Atsushi in some disturbing fit of maternal affection, but he really, really should’ve thought out his plans for the day a _lot_ more.

To be fair, there were quite a few distractions between the first inkling of the date-not-date to now, with Atsushi sitting thigh-to-thigh with him on his leather couch.  Their shoulders are not quite touching despite the both of them being hunched over, video game controllers in their hands and elbows resting on their knees. Tatsuya, distracted by the way Atsushi’s fingers swivel and twitch on the controller is losing despite his well-honed hand-eye coordination and impressive ability to multitask. Himuro watches Murasakibara out of the corner of his eye. He’s munching on the newest flavour of chemically-altered fruit snacks, the family sized bag is open between the two of them, an open invitation for Tatsuya’s own sampling.

There wasn’t much to note of the time they’d spent walking to Tatsuya’s apartment (minus roommate, thankfully) up to their second round of some first person shooter game Tatsuya had let Atsushi pick. They’d made their standard conversation, uncharacteristically tense on Himuro’s part, but nothing was off beyond the brand new image of Murasakibara’s socked feet planted on the floor next to Tatsuya. When Atsushi had pulled out the ever-familiar convenience store plastic bag filled with the latest nerunerunerune or umaibo flavours, it hits Tatsuya how domestic the scene feels. A not wholly unpleasant chill that runs down the length of his spine at the realization. In fact, it’s joined the weight of Atsushi’s words from just days ago, coiled in his chest, waiting to unfurl into something too big for his ribcage and burst, making itself known to everyone in the room.

A very empty room, at that.

Tatsuya’s still adjusting to his friend’s casual warmth so much closer to him than usual. The quiet that pierces through the repetitive machine gun noises and the random explosions on screen is screeching in comparison to the library’s stuffy, artificial silence. The feeling of isolation from the rest of the world saturates the beige paint on the walls that Tatsuya always found too classy for a pair of university bachelors.

“Muro-chin. _Muro-chin_.” Himuro starts, skewing the controller that had gone slack in one hand. He looks at Murasakibara, who has placed his controller on the coffee table and is crumpling the empty candy wrapper in one wide hand. “When should we start dinner?”

Tatsuya laughs nervously. This was what he especially had not anticipated enough, what he really should’ve thought through before skipping off to the market and stuffing his find in the back of the fridge, where he was kinda sure Taiga would not find it and make fun of him. “Actually, Atsushi I was thinking of just going out.”

“Mooou, Muro-chin I’m too tired to go out,” he pouts pointedly at the muggy grey sky visible through the window. “It’s too cold let’s just make something. You said you went food shopping earlier.” He chucks the crumpled tinfoil at the wastebasket in the corner of his living room, it goes straight in.

“You uh- I can’t cook, Atsushi.” His face burns, the zealous encouragement from Alex and Taiga had fueled his daydreams. They ring shamefully in the back of his mind. Atsushi regards him strangely.

“How does Muro-chin eat?”

“Taiga’s the one who cooks,” Atsushi’s eyebrow twitches, since the run-in at Maji Burger any mention of Taiga’s name is met with Atsushi’s disapproval. “You’re a guest, Atsushi I’m not about to make you cook. Here, I’ll call in for delivery-“ Before Himuro can finish, Atsushi is standing and brushing past him with the same ferocious grace he’s only seen on the court. He marches directly to the fridge, stooping down to pull random vegetables out and place them on the counter. Tatsuya watches, making no effort to stop him, even when he finds the pair of supermarket plastic bags and their strange variety of whatever Tatsuya had hurriedly pulled from the aisles and paid for.  

“What does your roommate feed you?” He’s _tsking_ over the contents of the bag, but Tatsuya says nothing, knowing full well that Taiga is capable of constructing balanced meals for the both of them. At least, balanced in the sense that he’s receiving the required nutrients. Taiga’s idea of portioning would shock even the most hardened dietician. Eventually, after sorting through a bag of leafy greens, uncooked mung beans, and a can of condensed milk, Atsushi settles on a collection of vegetables, a pack of udon noodles and a defrosted hunk of beef. “Unless Muro-chin wants an American meal.” He adds, glancing down at him from the corner of his eye.

Tatsuya shakes his head, smiling at Atsushi’s thoughtfulness. “I’m up for whatever you want.” With a nod, Atsushi gets to work, calling for various pots and utensils that Tatsuya only vaguely knows of.

At last the kitchen settles into a steady rhythm of knives against wood and bubbling water. Tatsuya is trying to peel a carrot while Atsushi stands next to him chopping mushrooms and throwing them into the pot. He peers upwards and notices, with a mortifyingly hot rush of glee, that his imagination had been accurate in every portrayal of their height difference. Instead of allowing his thoughts to stray back to the embarrassing daydreams that have been creeping his psyche for the last week, Tatsuya clears his throat.

“Where did you learn how to cook?” He doesn’t look up from the paring knife’s glide down the length of the carrot.

“My parents own a restaurant,” there’s a pause in the knife sounds “what are you doing to that carrot, Muro-chin?” Tatsuya blinks down at the lack of vegetable in his hand.

“Oh. I was never taught how to peel things with just a knife.” Suddenly, Atsushi is much closer than before. His arm snakes around him so that Tatsuya is caged in Atsushi’s hold. They’re not touching but electric currents run in the air between them, making the hairs on Tatsuya’s arms stand up. He has to bite back a choked squeal when Atsushi’s hands cover his own.

“Hold the knife like this.” With deft fingers, Murasakibara readjusts Tatsuya’s grip on the knife. He realizes Atsushi’s hands are much, much larger than his own. Even more than he’d originally assumed from just looking at them. “Make sure you’re holding the widest part,” While his friend directs his hands, he notices that despite the wet cloves of garlic lying on the counter next to them, Atsushi smells distinctly like cinnamon- which fits him well. “Put your finger on the blade and press here, make sure you find the right angle.” Atsushi’s hands tighten around his own, the bulges of his biceps press on Tatsuya’s shoulders. The air around them begins to buzz

“How do I know when I have the right angle?” Tatsuya’s voice is scratchy, he forces himself to swallow thickly. Atsushi is still working at the carrot, his chin resting on the top of Tatsuya’s head.

“It should just give- oh here it is.” Himuro watches their hands, or rather Atsushi’s hands enveloping his own, slide the layer of skin off the carrot. It falls off the counter, but neither of them move to pick it up.

“Do you think you can do it by yourself?” Atsushi’s talking normally, but his mouth has moved so he can speak right next to his ear. He’s still gripping onto Tatsuya, and he can feel the warmth of his chest, plus his heartbeat steady against his back.

“Y-yeah.” Tatsuya’s clears the gravel from his throat. “Thanks, Atsus-“ Tatsuya makes the mistake of turning his head to peer over his right shoulder. Atsushi’s mouth must’ve been in his hair because he’s now close enough to have his lips brush against the corner of Himuro’s lips. They’re slightly chapped, though his breath is soft enough to feel like a kiss.

They jerk away from each other, Atsushi less violently. Tatsuya immediately misses the warmth, but the spot Atsushi’s lips had brushed burns furiously.  With a small “sorry” from Atsushi and a smaller wave of dismissal on Tatsuya’s part, the two of them return to their knife work.

Tatsuya peels the rest of the carrots poorly and in silence.

The quasi-peaceful quiet is broken when Atsushi sets the pot to simmer for an hour, leaving the two of them in to their own devices. Conversation starts when Atsushi stumbles upon one of Kagami’s basketball magazines.

“Ah, Mine-chin and I were interviewed in this one.” Tatsuya’s curiosity perks at Atsushi’s voluntary mention of anything and anyone having to do with basketball.

“Was this another Generation of Miracles thing?”

“Mm. This one came later though, after all of us left for different high schools.” He flips through the glossy pages, eventually settling on a full-page shot of Aomine going for a dunk, Atsushi is hovering under the net, arms stretched up in what would be an unmistakable block against anyone who wasn’t a miracle. “Our schools were the finalists in The Winter Cup.”

“Winter Cup?” Atsushi peers down at the photo, looking as bored as he usually does when faced with having to speak about his history.

“A high school tournament for all of Japanese high school basketball.” He reclines backwards on the couch and yawns. “It took up more than a season. What a waste.” Suddenly, Tatsuya can’t hold it anymore.

“Murasakibara, why do you hate basketball so much?” Atsushi’s eye opens at Tatsuya’s use of his family name. The other slides open as well when he notices Tatsuya’s expression.

“What makes you think I hate basketball?”

“Just- you never want to talk about it. You silence everyone who mentions it.” Tatsuya thinks back to Aomine’s words. “Did something happen? Something bad?” Atsushi’s eyebrows knit together, his expression vague.

“I don’t hate basketball.” He e makes no moveHHHHHHcloses the magazine and sets it back on the bookshelf. “I hate the people who always have to throw it in my face.” Tatsuya feels his face pinching together.

“How’s that any different? If you can’t stand any mention of it, how can you stand the sport?” He stands and stalks closer to Atsushi.

“You’re too close to me Muro-chin,” He mimes batting him away. “And I told you, I can’t tolerate it floating around me all the time. Just leave it alone.”

“But you’re an incredible player, Atsushi. I can’t see how anyone with your talent-“

“I said leave it alone, Himuro.” Atsushi’s voice is still low, but the volume is much louder. It’s out of place and foreign to Tatsuya, but he doesn’t let himself flinch.

“No, you need to confront yourself.” They’re almost chest to chest now, but the atmosphere is a far cry from the crackling air they shared earlier in the evening. “You’ve got so much to offer Atsushi, but you’re abandoning it all because you’re annoyed at a few players-”

“You don’t know the whole story.” Murasakibara is glaring down at Tatsuya, his fists clenched at his side, voice raised in volume. “You don’t know anything Muro-chin, don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Tatsuya feels like he’s been thrown into the twilight zone. The final moments, with the strong words, the raised voices and the ball-talk were completely out of character for the Atsushi he knows- or perhaps knew. Atsushi walking out of the apartment, moving fluidly and dodging anymore questions was much more faithful to Himuro’s perception of The Murasakibara Atsushi he’d spent the last month getting to know.

In that moment, Himuro wished it were not the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all these pent up frustrations smushed into one chapter, forgive me. the boyfriends will be sorting their shit out and putting their pride down soon, promise. Also next chapter should be up by this weekend, schoolwork permitting! Thanks for the patience guys :*  
> ps look at the 7777 word count wowowoow this is so appealing pls appreciate this i swear i didnt plan it, im not that great w numbers  
> crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/137671645941/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi)


	7. subtext to no text

_December 12 th, 6:56 AM_

Himuro is up miserably early, as he had been every morning for the last two weeks. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar, watching Kagami measure out protein powder and dump it onto the mushy green soup inside the blender. The life of a semi-pro college athlete is one Tatsuya is kind of glad he avoided.

“Are you really still moping? That’s sad, even for you, Himuro.” Tatsuya lets out a long-suffering sigh, not feeling up to arguing with Taiga.

“Eh.”

“Eh? Is that seriously it?” Kagami pounds his fist down hard to snap the cover of his whey container shut. “Tatsuya, it’s been two weeks. If you’re really this torn up, shouldn’t you have done something about it by now?”

“I have!” Tatsuya moves out of his slouch to meet Kagami’s eyes. “He’s just- not accepting my calls. And I can’t find him on campus.” He plants his face on the countertop and lets his head roll to the side, waiting for Kagami to let the topic die out. A few beats later, Kagami lets out a sigh of his own and starts moving to put away his ingredients. The shrill motor of the blender drowns out any other thoughts that Tatsuya was at risk of being disturbed by.

A few hours later, after staring at yesterday’s Economics notes and slogging through the bare minimum of appearing presentable, Tatsuya ventures out to the first class of the day, trying not to be hyperaware of every unbelievably tall, purple-haired man that floats into his peripheral vision. Needless to say, no copy, nor original is seen for the entire day.

He knows he’s acting sticky and childish, and he can’t help but constantly replay his last evening with Atsushi in his head. He’s gone over it so many times, highlighting his own insensitivity and self-righteousness to the point where he’s not quite sure the inkling of anger he still feels is justified. Even with the dejection that comes with the image of the cold, soggy udon and still open issue of _Basketball Monthly_ lying next to him, Tatsuya shuffles past the lovelorn grindings of his mind to the emptiness and dread of losing a friend.

He’d dealt with his pride ten minutes after simmering down, bringing to a grand total of half an hour before he was ready to crawl to Atsushi, prostrate himself at his feet and apologize. Now, he’s back at his once regular spot at the library, chewing idly at the end of his pencil, not even bothering to pretend he’s not staring at the empty table across the room.

All of his calls and messages had gone unanswered. Himuro stopped trying his phone after the third day, not wanting to aggravate and annoy Atsushi further. It took nothing short of of giving his phone to Taiga to hide and then spending an entire day staring at his reflection and muttering _, “you’re looking desperate, hoe. Stop it.”_ For his to quit the wall of texted apologies cold-turkey.

Not even conversation with Kagami was enough to distract him anymore. In fact, Kagami was hardly home anymore since basketball season was reaching its peak, and especially since any mention of Aomine would throw him into a mess of embarrassed stuttering.

Tatsuya didn’t bother asking anymore.

Himuro plugs his earphones in with a heavy sigh, trying not to think about how quiet his life has become without the constant crunching and crinkling of junk food and their packaging.

_December 15 th, 3:20 PM_

With finals looming even closer, Tatsuya takes a break from studying to shoot some baskets in the freezing weather. He keeps his coat on, lost in the sound of his coat material swishing and scratching while it moves in time with his dribbling. The sound of voices filter into the caged court, but Himuro ignores them, not in the mood to socialize.

“Oi, Tatsuya, right?” He turns at the sound of his name and the vaguely familiar voice.

“Aoimine-san. Hello.” He nods at him, holding the ball in his hands while hoping Aomine will get the hint and keep walking.

“Hey, you play ball? Taiga said you were pretty good. Care to try me?” If it were any other day, Tatsuya would jump at the chance to play with someone as good as Aomine. He’d been to some of Taiga’s games, the man lived up to the pure feral energy that he’d picked up on at their first meeting. Instead, he balanced an excuse to leave on the tip of his tongue, but not before being interrupted by another voice, this one also vaguely familiar.

“Dai-chan! You’re supposed to come _back_ from the washroom before you just leave, God.” A flurry of long pink hair and yellow fleece bounds up to Aomine, whose expression falls into one of boredom.

“The point is I’m trying to ditch you Satsuki. Stop mothering me.”

“Uh, nice try. I already know you’re gonna do something stupid the second I let you out of my sight. Honestly Dai-chan, why else would you be standing in a basketball court? To mess up your elbow some more, that’s what.”

“Oh, so you’re Satsuki.” Tatsuya’s eye twitches when he realizes he’s lost his opportunity to slip out before doing something he regret. “Uh, I’m Himuro. Himuro Tatsuya.” The pink haired girl squint up at him, as if trying to place his identity, but brightens almost immediately.

“Oh! Yes, I know who you are, Himuro-kun. Momoi Satsuki.” She winks at him, and then sympathy melts into her expression. “And by the way, Mukkun’s like this. Just hang in there.” Instantly Tatsuya’s gaze darts to Aomine, who’s got his hands in his pockets and is looking intently at the fence surrounding the court. He sighs inwardly, looks like there are now two big-mouths in his life.

“Don’t worry about it, Momoi-san.” In fact, her words have helped reassure him the teensiest bit, knowing that Atsushi’s actions aren’t unheard of.

“Mm, Murasakibara’s been mad about less. Your case isn’t that special, so he’ll probably start talking to you soon.”

“Thanks. Aomine.” Himuro couldn’t help but note that his bluntness complimented Taiga’s perfectly.

“Hmm, well Atsushi _is_ a little petty, but he’s still reasonable, so he’ll probably start seeing where you’re coming from any day now. At least, that’s what past data suggests.” Momoi scrunches her nose. “Unless some other unrelated variable serves as a big enough annoyance that he put it off longer. Whichever it is, I’m going to give it sometime after exams, but before Christmas until he starts talking again.” She smiles at him serenely, but Himuro’s comes out a little strained, not sure how to take all the information just thrown at him.

“Alright, thank you very much Momoi-san, Aomine.” He pauses, a little unsure of what to say. “I appreciate your advice.” Momoi giggles, and even Aomine lets out a small smirk.

“Oh, Himuro-kun, those were straight facts I was just telling you.” She spins around a little and kicks at Aomine, who’s trying to subtly bend over to pick up the basketball Tatsuya had dropped earlier. He lets out a grunt. “My advice is that you shouldn’t try to pursue Mukkun when it’s these kinds of matters at hand. Just let him come to you, he doesn’t like feeling rushed.” She tugs at Aomine in some sort of signal that goes beyond Tatsuya. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

And then they’re gone with a quick and lively, “good-bye! It’s was nice meeting you Himuro-kun!” thrown over her shoulder.

Tatsuya rolls the basketball in his palm, feeling the cold leather permeate his skin and the mysterious veil of acceptance fall over him.

_December 21 st, 2:20 PM_

Whatever comfort Momoi and Aomine’s words gave Himuro before had worn away, leaving him with nerves as frayed as old rope. It was nearing a month since he’d spoken, or even seen Atsushi. He’s a little hurt that his friend would go to such lengths to avoid him, and a little amazed at that. Campus was large, and they were in different faculties, but they’d always managed to catch each other at random points in the day, even without planning to.

Now that Tatsuya was finished his exams, Taiga still labouring away at studying for his last final, and all the phone calls and texts to his parents and high school friends cleared away, Tatsuya was left alone with his thoughts and month-old feelings that were far from fading in intensity.

Not wanting to go home if only just to mope pitifully on the couch, Tatsuya wanders into the library commons, giving into the urge for familiarity, and presses the elevator button for the third floor, hoping for a crowd not for the first time in his life.

He doesn’t even need to step out of the elevator to have his eyes meet Atsushi’s, who stands in front of him, separated only by the air that was an impermeable wall of smooth steel just a second ago. Atsushi blinks down at him, but doesn’t say a word as he gets onto the elevator.

Suddenly, and for obvious reasons, Tatsuya doesn’t feel the need to sit in the same creaky, uncomfortable library chair he’s planted himself in for the better part of a month. None of his limbs want to move, so he stays shock still, gripping the left strap of his backpack, holding his breath while Atsushi punches the button for the main floor.

The doors take an eternity to close, and the lift itself takes an even _longer_ time to _begin_ moving.

Tatsuya cannot think of a time he’s been more uncomfortable.

“Murochin.”

His heart rate spikes, but he turns his head to Atsushi. His neck aches. It’s been a while since he’s had to crane his gaze so far up. Tatsuya clears his throat, not wanting to embarrass himself any further.

“Yes, Atsushi?” His given name tumbles off his lips for the first time in a while.

“Are you busy this Saturday?”

“No. I’m not.” The elevator light signals that they’ve reached the main floor, but the door hesitates to open. _Of course._

“Let’s hang out.”

The _ding!_ echoes in the elevator. Too loud for just the two bodies in the closed space, too harsh for the unreasonably thick tension that sits between them. The doors seem to force themselves apart, but it’s a half-hearted observation on Tatsuya’s part, because he’s pulled Atsushi down by the collar to sneer into his face how unfair he’s being. He’s jammed his fist into his cheek and is staring down, not up, at the rapidly purpling bruise on his friend’s blank face. He’s letting a month’s worth of frustration run down his face in warm rivers and tear out of his throat in biting punches.

And then his mouth is on Atsushi’s kissing and nipping at his lips, letting their teeth clack together in a mess of tangled communication. Finally revelling in the satisfaction of contact that he’s desired for months, even perhaps at the cost of more misunderstandings. He’s pressing himself closer and closer to the braod chest, not caring one bit about what repercussions any of this could have, just as Atsushi kisses him with the same zeal.

But none of that happens, because Tatsuya’s looked away and returns to staring down whatever’s in front of him. He begins to make his way out of the open doors, but not before replying to Atsushi’s request, Momoi’s words crackling in the back of his mind.

“Yeah. Just text me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my own resolve lies not in the resolution of these two
> 
> viva la angst.
> 
> two chapters left friends! Thanks so much for sticking with me and yes i promise Murasakibara will get more screentime :)))  
> Crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/138520384471/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi)


	8. look cool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> making up but also making out   
> featuring Himuro's in-depth analysis of Murasakibara's every action.

_December 24 th, 7:02 AM_

Silence.

Normally, Himuro has no qualms concerning quiet, choosing it over inane conversation most of the time.

Still, this was a little ridiculous.

Atsushi had texted him an address and the request to meet him there at 8 in the morning that Saturday immediately after Himuro strode out of the library on shaky legs. He couldn’t get the vision of Atsushi’s vacant disinterest out of his head. Everything from the overbearing height to his childish manner of speaking should have been familiar, but Tatsuya couldn’t help but feel like he’d just run away from a stranger.

The sluggishness of the last month was what kept Himuro from ignoring the text, which is why he finds himself in this very situation.

He’d woken up early, earlier than Taiga even, to catch the cold steel to Ikebukuro, ignoring all the obnoxiously romantic light displays on the way.

Following the directions the search engine had given him, Tatsuya found the restaurant with little issue, but dallied. He’d circled the block twice, wondering (perhaps a little obsessively) what the best way to approach Atsushi would be, especially after his minor, albeit silent, breakdown in the elevator. No matter how cool either of them are, there is still the giant pink elephant in the room in the form of Atsushi storming out and Tatsuya’s obvious sulking regret.

The possibility of acting like their one-month friendship had never happened is hardly an option, yet there’s no way Tatsuya will march in there and continue being a sulky, whiny kill-joy. On the flipside, Atsushi most likely invited him for a reason- Momoi’s words of advice bounce around his head once again. On his third turn of the block, Himuro steels himself and walks into the empty restaurant, ready to play it completely by ear.

And now the two of them are standing in a spacious industrial kitchen, bags of flour and sugar lining the countertops along with a number of metal mixing bowls of various sizes.

The first half hour passes with absolutely no talking from either of them.

Neither of them have said a word to each other, which was not uncommon, and yet the more time that stretches between Himuro’s arrival and the present, the more stifling the air in the otherwise cool room becomes. Only the whirring motor of the electric mixer would penetrate the uncomfortable tension in timed intervals.

Himuro parked himself against the unused space on the opposite side, knowing his help would be more of a hindrance to Atsushi’s work. His back is beginning to go numb where the edge of the countertop digs into him, but he holds himself still, apprehensive about breaking the concentration in the room. Instead he takes the opportunity to study Atsushi for the first time in what feels like years.

He’s mostly the same- hulking figure having to hunch over his work, long-fingered hands labouring away diligently, but the slope of his eyebrows and shoulders speak of an exhaustion Himuro had never had to familiarize himself with. He doesn’t dwell on the pang of guilt that accompanies the latter thoughts, focusing instead on remaining patient enough for Atsushi to open the floor to conversation.

As he roams the planes of Atsushi’s face (in a way that- he will swear up and down- was not lecherous in the slightest), he realizes how much he’d missed just looking at him. Himuro guiltily tries not to think about the times he’d imagined kissing Atsushi’s pursed lips. And then he tries even harder to keep himself from bringing to mind the new fantasy of kissing away those brand new wrinkles on his forehead- courtesy of Atsushi’s intense concentration. Belatedly, Himuro realizes he’s being embarrassing by just standing there and instead fixes his gaze on the opposite wall (far, far away from Atsushi) and endure the rest of the silence.

Briefly, Tatsuya entertains the idea of slipping out the back door and going home to sulk on the couch, but he holds himself in place, waiting patiently for Atsushi to begin the conversation. It’s not until the cakes are in their molds and sitting in the heat of the oven that Atsushi wipes his hands and assumes a position across from Himuro- arms crossed and hair still pulled away from his face. His efforts are rewarded soon after, when Atsushi drops his gaze to look at Himuro directly.

“This is my parent’s restaurant,” he says, as if Himuro hadn’t figured it out himself. He nods, waiting, nearly on bated breath for Atsushi’s words. “They used to make me serve, but I didn’t like to.”

Absently, Himuro realizes that this is the longest he’s seen Atsushi go without a snack or some kind of bagged convenience store treat in his hand.

“You didn’t like it then?” Tatsuya’s voice is a little gruff from lack of use.

“Mm, it’s more that the customer’s didn’t like me.” Tatsuya cocks his head to the side.

“Why would that be?”

“Moou, Muro-chin you can’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

“It all depends on what exactly you’re referring to.” Himuro feels his eyebrows pull together, genuinely unsure of what it is Atsushi is talking about. He shifts uncomfortably, picking dried dough off of his forearm.

“People don’t like rude waiters,” there’s a pause in where Atsushi moves to reach for his bag in one of the pantries. “’specially not the one that will get angry at the smallest things,” he clears his throat and pulls out a bright yellow corn snack, not looking Himuro in the eye. “Leave them at dinner and then ignore them for a long time without an explanation.”

Himuro doesn’t say anything. He just watches Atsushi eat the corn stick as he probably had a hundred times before- except now it looks wrong.

Despite his bored expression (which has been standard to him for as long as Himuro’s been around), Atsushi’s eyebrows are drawn up in the unfamiliar way he noted earlier. His shoulders are slumped forward only a few degrees more than what he’s accustomed to seeing, but enough that anyone would know that the man they belonged to was tired and sad. And then Tatsuya notices the small, measured bites that he takes. The slow, methodical chewing is foreign and (frankly) _wrong-looking_ on Murasakibara. He’s smaller and sheepish, even in the cold, cavernous kitchen.

And like _that_ , Himuro gets it.

He gets Atsushi’s shyness when it comes to apologizing. It’s more than the self-entitlement that comes with being wronged by the world, annoyed by those around him who take it all too seriously. He understands what is essentially slicing oneself open in front of what feels like the whole world- already filled with criticism for accomplishments and more so for mistakes. Himuro understands his words, all the ones that had gone unsaid and unexpressed. He gleans his apology- the real one- from the shadows beneath Atsushi’s eyes and the careless way he’s thrown his hair up rather than the smooth arrangement at the nape of his neck he’d insist on tying up the one night they made udon together.

Heartbeats pass before Tatsuya nods and allows a ghost of a smile to fall upon his features, knowing that Atsushi has too much pride for any acceptance beyond that. They stand in silence for some time after, enjoying the scent of vanilla that begins to swell through the room. This wordlessness is less tense, and shorter-lived. It’s easier and kinder on his nerves than all the silences that came before it.

_December 24 th, 9:47 AM_

“What made you decide to bake instead?” One of the timers go off and they both move to the multiple pairs of oven mitts hanging on the wall. Atsushi’s movements are automatic, while Himuro’s are more the product of being unsure what to do with himself.

They’d settled into a charade of comfort. While the cadence and rhythm are familiar, it’s not the same as what it had been before- there’s something foreign in their interactions. It’s not vindictive or even awkward, but now that the other had some knowledge of what should have ideally stayed secret, it was more of a risk to ignore it than to address it at all.

“My parents decided for me, but I kept going because of basketball.”

“Basketball?” Himuro, though puzzled, feels his pulse begin to quicken, not for the first time. He’s unsure if he should feel giddy or nervous at the mention of the sport.

“Mm.” And it’s left at that. When the finished rolls are cooling on the rack, and the final batch is placed in the oven with its timer set, Atsushi moves their conversation to a booth right outside the kitchen. Himuro sinks into the lush upholstery, listening for Atsushi’s elaboration, curious as to how the world of athletics and culinary combine.

“So. You stayed because of basketball?” Boldly, Tatsuya tests the waters of Atsushi’s temperament and boundaries.

“Mm, pretty much, Murochin, but don’t let that fool you,” Atsushi thumbs at an invisible spot on the table “I was just doing my part for the family business, but even then the pressure was on from every direction.” Himuro toys with the salt shaker in front of him.

“Is that so? What kind of pressure?” Himuro’s heart skips a beat when Atsushi’s thumbnail pauses his ministrations.

“The school pressure.” He resumes the scratching and rubbing in a spot slightly to the left. “I was offered a scholarship.”

“And you didn’t take it.” There’s no trace of disbelief in Himuro’s voice, only the precarious need to understand more.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want it,” Atsushi says this flatly, the derision very well-hidden or gone completely, worn away over mere months. Before Himuro can say anything, or even ponder the consequences of whatever words he’d choose to blurt out in that tense, critical moment, Atsushi’s phone vibrates against the table, the caller ID reading ‘ _Mama’_. They talk briefly, mostly one worded ‘ _mm’s’_ or affirmative noises on Atsushi’s part. When he hangs up, he slides out of the booth and slips his phone into his back pocket.

“I’ll tell you more while I prepare the batter for tonight’s Christmas dessert special.” Although he doesn’t physically demonstrate it, Tatsuya can hear the rolled eyes in his tone. He smirks and follows him back into the kitchen.

**

The hot, muggy temperature hits him in lazy waves and the smell of freshly baked sugar that washes over him is not wholly unpleasant. It becomes warmer and perhaps more humid as they near the ovens, but before Himuro can get any closer, Atsushi grips his elbow and looks straight into him.

“Atsushi?” Himuro stares back. His hand is wide and warm, warmer than the room around them. It curls around his arm in a way that sends a thrill of _something_ up his spine. He says nothing, only the sound of their breathing punctuates the stillness of the room.

“I-“ Himuro understood early in their friendship that Atsushi is not one for words, let alone well-thought, eloquent prose, but seeing him be at a loss for words sticks pins into the depth of his heart. “Are we-“ Himuro watches the large man struggle to find what to say, looking smaller and more weighed down than he’s ever seen him. He stays quiet, needing to hear Atsushi’s voice.

After a moment more of his fumbling and Atsushi’s warm hand burning into the bared skin of his elbow, Tatsuya lifts his own hand to place it over his friend’s. They’re no longer looking at each other, at least, Himuro directs his gaze to the image of his own slimmer, pale hand lying atop Atsushi’s broad one, dusted with residual flour and flat calluses. He holds it there and allows the action to flood his neurons. It mists his eyes and dries his throat, the blood in his body rushes around too fast and makes him dizzy, crazy with want, and tenderness, and affection, and even rage all at the same time.

“I know,” Himuro doesn’t even cringe at the sound of his voice cracking, or the first rivulet that falls down his right cheek. “I know it’s hard Atsushi, and I forgive you.” He’d winds his fingers in between Atsushi’s while he speaks. It’s low and soft, every consonant breathy as he brings their joined hands up to his lips.

Atsushi’s expression, which is almost always bored or annoyed by default, shifts from uncertainty to quiet realization. His eyes widen, and the creases around his mouth fade out of existence for that splice of time.

There must’ve been some sort of hitch in Himuro’s awareness because suddenly, and only momentarily, Atsushi’s lips are pressed against his own. He pulls away immediately, violet eyes dark and pupils blown. Their breathing is heavy and their gazes are finally forced to confront each other in the small space they suddenly share. Atsushi cradles his jaw tenderly, the slight press of his mouth is missed immediately; and so Himuro pulls him back down, crashing against each other in the way they’d denied themselves for too long.

It’s almost too much for Tatsuya, who still has tears tracking down the slope of his cheeks, but feels all of Atsushi in a way too powerful for him to express with anything more articulate than a whimper.

He grapples backwards, Atsushi tipping and shuffling himself along with his body. Tatsuya’s hips hit what he believes to be the lower food prep counters, but he stops trying to guess on his surroundings when Atsushi’s tongue enters his mouth, effectively clearing his mind of all thoughts that are not directly related to the man in front of him. The both of them pull the feelings and dissipating frustrations out into the cold air of the kitchen. They lay them out for the walls to see and their minds to taste. Not even the salt of Tatsuya’s tears, occasionally dripping into their mouths, is enough to denounce the intensity that crackles in the air.

It takes the trilling of the oven timer and then the panicked tangent of a breathless assistant manager for the two of them to break apart at the lips. In the smoky room, cheeks flushed by more than the embarrassment of trashing an entire batch of dinner rolls, Himuro sneaks a glance at Atsushi. His lips are still quirked up at one corner, even as he slogs through the labour and punishment of kneading into the Christmas dessert special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always yall can catch me [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/) or [here](http://zemmeline.tumblr.com/)  
> I worked at a restaurant once, our 'Christmas dessert special' was a sad looking stack of croissants and edible glitter
> 
> Final chapter's up next! Many thanks to all of you for reading and sticking by me and my children :')


	9. ask me anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! A miracle based on how much real life I was buried under lmaoooo
> 
> A billion virtual hugs/fist bumps/high fives/freshly baked cookies to all you lovely people who've made it this far. You are all precious and patient and I am ever grateful for your readership <3
> 
> The tone of this final chapter, if you're as nervous about it as I am, can be summed up in a more romantically meaningful reading of [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xms9QGn46Wo) (it's a v good song, i promise)
> 
> Thanks again for reading folks!

_January 1 st, 5:36AM_

There is no ice on the paved path to the shrine, but the frigid air that engulfs Mount Takao elicits a small shiver from Himuro.

“I told you to wear a bigger coat, Murochin.” Atsushi, built and radiating heat like a furnace, strides up the cobbled steps coolly. Without stopping, he takes his mitted hand out of his jacket pocket and holds it out to Tatsuya, who doesn’t hesitate in placing his freezing hand in Atsushi’s.

“I forgot that air temperature drops up here.” He says this a hint sheepishly. They’d been walking for close to an hour, choosing to forego the chair lift and leave themselves at the mercy of the elements. Normally Tatsuya shuns the outdoors, but he’d been in a romantic mood when Atsushi proposed they stay up to watch the sunrise. The sentimentalism surprised Tatsuya, but he’d rolled with it, curious about the Japanese customs that fell out of practice with his family in America.

Atsushi, who lives at home with his parents, had pulled Tatsuya into opening the New Year under the kotatsu with him, citing that he pitied him enough to pull him away from all the sexual tension that choked any space smaller than a basketball court, courtesy of Kagami and Aomine. Tatsuya knew better. Atsushi’s parents were in Akita with his extended family, after all.

“Murochin just doesn’t want to admit his L.A. breeding makes him a climate wimp.” Tatsuya glares up at him balefully, but says nothing. Cold air should be unpleasant to everyone. Atsushi begins to slow his pace, his face is pensive and lit up by one of the lanterns that line the path. “We’re nearly there.”

Up ahead is the topmost pagoda of the temple, the incline begins to noticeably steepen. Somewhere, a bird twitters, signalling the oncoming sunrise, adding to the growing sound of a crowd gathered around the main hall. Not wanting to have to deal with noise and people, Atsushi, who is still holding Himuro’s hand, veers down an emptier road. It’s darker, but also takes them further from the noises.

“Is this where we go for the fortunes and charms?” Himuro smirks, playing up the cultural ignorance Atsushi teased him about earlier. He only rolls his eyes.

“We’ll go after,” he pauses and slows his pace. “Unless you’re tired?” Himuro shakes his head.

“You did not make me walk up that mountain for an hour just to turn me around and take me back home right after,” bumping Atsushi’s shoulder, he smiles a bit. “I want the full, all-exclusive tourist experience.”

Atsushi nods at him and they continue down the path, winding their way around the mountain.

***

It only takes fifteen minutes to find a good place to watch the sunrise together. Atsushi had insisted on a nap while under the _kotatsu_ just hours ago, which Tatsuya conceded to without much argument. Besides, the electric charge that sits in the air between them- likely not a by-product of Atsushi’s Generation of Miracles™ status (Himuro had met them all days earlier, which was a little terrifying in itself) pulled him into a quiet mood. In the cold, but admittedly manageable, winter air; the absence of the Tokyo bustling stirred something in Himuro, making him restless.

Sunrise is still an hour away, and so he follows Atsushi to rest on one of the many large, unobtrusive rocks that line the secluded path. It was dry, but cold enough that Himuro has to work to disguise his undignified yelp as a hiss of displeasure. The two of them sit with arms pressed, quickly finding an easy comfort in the warmth that seeped between the layers of their coats.

They are left in silence with not even the crumpling noises of convenience store cellophane and mass-produced cornstarch products. Himuro notices that they fall into the routine of silence more readily than they do with any game of basketball or the mysterious allure of sizzling oil on the stovetop. All the titles and words that have gone unsaid between them manifest in these moments- wherein neither of them are speaking but there’s enough conversation to satiate the stillness.

Another thing Himuro catches is that they never last longer than they need to. It’s as brief as a winter day, and the both of them just know when to put the words into the air, charged with an inexplicable mutual understanding. Sometimes it’s not even a word or sound that will slide them out of their silence. An unconscious curl of his lips, a stray piece of hair falling frontwards- small things that can be felt as easily as they are seen.

Today it is wordless and soundless and nameless. The break of dawn comes slowly and then all at once from the rock’s vantage point. Their fingers have found each other sometime during their stay and even with the blinding rays of early morning prying into their space, and more and more people leisurely pacing the paths, they stay there and wait- in no hurry for words.

_February 13 th, 8:45 PM_

“So which one of us is giving chocolate tomorrow and who gets to wait for White Day?” They’re back in Himuro’s kitchen, the New Year’s sunrise a pleasant memory painted on the backs of their eyelids.

“Moou, you have,” he sneaks a sluggish glance at the clock, “three hours until your deadline.” Murasakibara tosses a bag of chips in his general direction with a bored glance at his computer screen and the blinking cursor. “Research papers don’t write themselves.”

Midterm Season Atsushi was always more talkative than usual.

“Pssh, alright forgive me for trying to poke out your views on Valentine’s Day protocol and gender roles.” His quip is met with an _umaibo_ jabbed into his arm.

“Murochin wouldn’t even have time to go out and buy my chocolate now.”

“I am perfectly capable of completing- wait when did we decide that?” Much to his dismay, Atsushi only snorts instead of answering, gifting Himuro with a chin-tilt to his computer and the pronounced _crunch_ of a corn snack. “Fine. Don’t even expect obligation chocolates from me,” he sniffs.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You’d probably try to buy them from a corner store.” He takes another bite, crumbs scattering across the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong with that?” Atsushi blinks dispassionately, as if personally wronged by the words.

“They’re from a _corner store_.”

“Whoa, sorry I forgot you’re too good for corner store food.” Tatsuya looks at the ever-present wrappers strewn across the surface as he speaks.

“The chocolates always stick to the wrappers.”

“Right. Okay, Atsushi.” With a long-suffering sigh, Murasakibara swipes the crumbs in front of him into an empty chip bag and blows a long strand of hair from his face.

“Ahhhh, take the hint Murochin. Honestly, you can be so dense.” Before Tatsuya can squick out an indignant protest to the ‘dense’ comment, Atsushi pulls out a flat, square box, wrapped in shiny gold foil and stamped with a vaguely familiar insignia. He fidgets uncomfortably under Tatsuya’s stare. “Mama wrapped it for me.”

“No she didn’t.” A grin that could fall anywhere between watery and sleazy worms its way onto Tatsuya’s face. “You wrapped this yourself Atsushi, don’t be so shy.” He takes it from his wide, open palms and Himuro can feel the muscles around his eyes soften considerably.

“Hmph, I just took the rejects from each batch.” But he didn’t, because Himuro’s slipped the lid open and is met with the sight of sixteen perfectly formed bonbons, among the variety were the same kinds Atsushi’s mother had sent home with him when he’d remarked his particular taste for them.

“Mmhm, alright please tell _Hinako-san_ I appreciate these immensely.” He bites into one, marveling at the way the filling melts on his tongue.

“Don’t be so familiar with my mother.” Atsushi leans forward to take the halved truffle into his mouth. The action makes Tatsuya’s heart stutter in his chest. “And I made these.” He says it almost grudgingly, but not quietly. Among the silence that lays between their spoken conversations, Tatsuya’s learned how to read the things Atsushi can’t say.

In their months together, Himuro’s developed the uncanny ability to distinguish between the loud silences and the comfortable silences. The silence between words and the silences between subjects are not the same thing, and they can swing from one to the other in a moment as quick as intonation.

For such a large man, Atsushi cannot be described as _imposing_ in any deeper sense of the word. Tatsuya regards him from the other side of his dining table and ponders the changes he’s only noted now. The tilt of satisfaction peeks at him from the slant of Atsushi’s eyes and comfort is more evident in the easy arch of his back and relaxed shoulders. The burden of greatness doesn’t plague him anymore.

Sometime after Momoi had caught wind of their altered relationship status, Atsushi had managed to be roped into a small get together featuring all of his former classmates and then some. He spent a lot of the time scowling at Aomine’s goading but Tatsuya was content to see him voluntarily associating himself in conversation with the other bright characters- even going as far as to debate the effectiveness of seasoning oil versus traditional dry spices in western dishes with Kagami.

Lately, Atsushi’s stepped out of what a certain Akashi Seijurou had coined ‘the meddlesome familiar’. That conversation had been accompanied by a couple of nervous glances towards the man’s discomfortingly all-knowing expression, and then some alarm at the pleased grin that spread across his face with the words, “exactly as planned. Excellent job, Himuro-san.” His presence melted away from the party soon after, but Tatsuya remained jumpy for the rest of the evening.

Conversation came easily to him at it usually did with most strangers, even when he left half his attention to Atsushi, sitting on the other side of the room. It helped that most of them opened conversation with the topic of his (apparently) perplexing relationship to the Generation of Miracle’s most elusive member. He quickly found himself entrusted with stories of Atsushi’s adolescence, each one unfolding a layer of the not-irrelevant past that remained a shadowed fixture in Himuro’s perception of him.

Even though all of the stories remarked Atsushi’s private character, not once did Atsushi, who listened with half an ear from his perch of the couch, tell any of the story tellers off in the blunt way he’s preserved. Though it wasn’t much, Tatsuya felt his throat seize up with the weight of trust that entailed.

Now, sitting beside an Atsushi who he cannot confirm (or deny) as reformed, reenergized, or revived- Tatsuya takes special care to watch him with the absolute minimum of tenderness in his expression that Atsushi will allow without flustered excuses after he does something sweet.

“I guess that means I’ll get you back on White Day.” He touches his lips to Atsushi’s, who presses against him naturally, but also like he’s something delicate. Tatsuya can’t help but smile.

All their reasons and revelations remain unsaid, but the silences tell them that the words are no longer required.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/140940743506/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi)
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> This will deffffs be a build-up ficlet, I'm thinking it'll be about 5 chapters if things go the way I'm thinking right now.  
> Thanks for reading, friends!
> 
> Crossposted [here](http://redrevm.tumblr.com/post/136082147606/the-mischaracterization-of-murasakibara-atsushi)


End file.
